


apple of my eye

by OnyxSphynx



Series: newmann one-shots [55]
Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Not Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018) Compliant, Post-Drift (Pacific Rim), light-hearted bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-05
Updated: 2019-05-05
Packaged: 2020-02-23 19:06:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18708142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphynx/pseuds/OnyxSphynx
Summary: Post-Drift; Newt slowly picks himself back up.





	apple of my eye

**Author's Note:**

> anon asked: "Newmann prompt: "I hate you. Eat some fruit, you moron.""

The panic doesn’t hit him until a few weeks after; he’s standing in the lab, alone, the place almost bare, and then suddenly, out of nowhere, he realises,  _this is it. This is the end. My field of research—my_ passion— _it’s gone. All of it’s gone_.

The thought sends him reeling,  _shit oh shit what am I going to do_ —and he stumbles back, breath quickening, crumples to the ground. A flash of vibrant ink—his tattoos—

[—pain panic fear oh god oh god _ohgod_  he’s going to be eaten by a kaiju he’s going to die in a public kaiju shelter the tongue is getting closer and closer glowing bright and terrifying—

—oh nononono _nonono_ shit shit  _shit_ he’s only just escaped and now he’s going to be eaten by a  _fetal_ kaiju and he’s on the ground legs pulled to his chest shaking no no no—]

He has to—to—

Get away from this. Get it—stop it, he has to stop it, stop his  _brain_ he can’t deal with this—

He drags in a shaking gasp, tries to breathe, one-two-three, one-two-three—

Finally, his vision stops swimming marginally, though still shot through with electric-blue, but he doesn’t stand. He’s not honestly sure if he can, right now, so he just shifts so he’s not too uncomfortable. Everything is—it’s  _more_ , pressing in on his senses. Newt squeezes his eyes shut and hopes that it’ll pass soon.

-

When Hermann mentions interviews, Newt—freaks, just a little bit.

A tiny bit.

A lot.

“R—really?” he questions, voice cracking, “o—oh, I—”

Words fail him, and he flounders, tears rising, unbidden, and Hermann frowns at him. “Newton, are—?” and nope nope  _nope_ , abort mission. Not good, nope, no way is he going to break down  _now_ , in front of  _Hermann_  because he can’t bear to do that to him, not with the taste of bile in his throat when he found himself seizing on the ground—when  _Hermann_ found  _him_ , god, this is  _trippy_.

“I’m tired,” he says, instead, a deflection, he knows Hermann knows too, but the other just purses his lips, obviously unhappy, but allows Newt to leave.

They do do the interviews, eventually; there’s no way for Newt to get around it, so he does a bare minimum—four, all of them  _with_ Hermann, that’s non-negotiable, and Hermann doesn’t comment, just fusses over how pale he looks—“Really, Newton, you look  _vampiric_ , even in comparison to me—have you even see the light of the sun?” he snaps, but there’s no bite to his tone, only concern, thick and heavy like molasses—and covertly rests his hand on Newt’s knee when the fidgeting gets too bad, a motion that he knows calms the biologist—

They’re rarely ever apart, though it’s only partially due to the Drift. “I work better…with you around,” Hermann admits to him, late one night, a few months after.

Newt’s lips quirk up. “Ditto.”

The other huffs at him and Newt knows to duck the hand that comes up to tug his ear before Hermann even moves it. “I still don’t get why you do that,” he complains, pulling his legs up onto the sofa, pushing the flimsy tea-table away slightly when he bumps it, “and, face it, dude, things like that only re-in—re-” he gives up trying to enunciate the word clearly, says, instead, “they only support the image of you as a stuffy nineteenth-century dude.”

He can’t see the brow the other’s raising at him from where his head is resting, but after all these years, he knows that it is. “I hate you,” Hermann says, leans forward to tug a stray strand of hair behind Newt’s ear, and nudges the platter on the table. “Eat some fruit you moron, before it all dries out. Strawberries are hard to come by, and the pineapple’s only going to get to sour, and then you’ll complain to me about  _that_ , too.”

It startles a laugh out of Newt. “Well, duh,” he grins, and ignores the fork sitting on the edge of the plate, grabs a chunk of pineapple with his fingers. “Who else would it be?”

Hermann sighs, soft but fond, and says, “Use the fork, Newton, you’re going to get me sick.”

“Then I guess I’d be stuck nursing you back to health,” Newt retorts. “How terrible—”

Hermann cuts him off, shoving him, hard, and Newt shrieks, almost toppling off onto the floor.

Later, as they lay in bed, Newt’s head pillowed on Hermann’s shoulder, he lets his mind wander; yes, his tattoos still bring blue-white creeping into his vision; yes, he still refuses to interact with other people more than absolutely necessary, still screams awake from nightmares sometimes, but—

Hermann’s there for him, an anchor. He complains about Newt, yes, and he gets in rows with Newt daily, but it’s comfortable; safe; reassuring.

[Newt’s there for him, too, when he needs it; he’ll always be.]

“I can hear you thinking,” Hermann murmurs.

“Well, you know me,” Newt says.

Hermann huffs. “Shush,” he orders, and shifts his arm, twining their fingers together.


End file.
